


Ineffable Crimes

by cryingdrama3



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1930s, Demon, Demons, Detective, Detective AU, Developing Relationship, F/F, F/M, M/M, Murder, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, References to Aztec Religion & Lore, Religious Content, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Witchcraft, aziraphale - Freeform, crowley - Freeform, mafia, mob
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-29 01:42:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19819936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryingdrama3/pseuds/cryingdrama3
Summary: After binging mystery and crime novels Aziraphale had picked up the habit into joining and stopping crime with the local police. With the motivation of a rookie detective (and the help with some miracles here and there) the little angel is tasked to track down the local mob known as “The Fallen”.Unfortunately, he knows the mob boss and has history with him. Knowing that he isn’t meaning any harm and large amounts of evilness, Aziraphale turns a blind eye and slowly makes the evidence vanish.But when Murders that seemed to been fallen from the sky, Aziraphale cannot help but wonder: who the Hell is he protecting?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote this as half a dare and as half inspiration on @parkinart and @lifewhatisthat on Instagram (follow them they’re great). 
> 
> Also this is during 1938 in Soho, London.

Miracles, by definition, are impossible. They are described as something that is  _ ‘a surprising and welcome event that is not explicable by natural or scientific laws and is therefore considered to be the work of a divine agency’. _ But it reality, performing a miracle is quite easy; it’s simple math really. Just have an accident that would be considered a tragedy, take a child who fell down a ten foot deep well, have some reporters— a believer and an atheist—and have the child be pulled out from the well by the police and firemen with only a few scratches and bruises. 

Then the name “ _ Milkboy Miracle”  _ would appear on all of the newspapers across London with the believer earning a large amount of praise while the atheist would roll his eyes and question if it was an accident at all. 

Maybe it was but that’s a mystery that no one will know but God herself— and of course  _ I know.  _

But yes, it was a miracle. A simple miracle performed by a little angel that has roamed the earth for thousands of years, feasting and loving the human pleasures that God’s beautiful green Earth has to offer. A little angel with curly white hair that matched with his hidden wings and the clouds floating amongst the sky. The little angel whose eyes are so tired and as old as the world but loved every single lovely moment.

This was Aziraphale Fell. 

A man with an angel’s name who is not a man at all. An angel who walks like a human and consumes like a human with the sheer pleasure of it. But also does something else, a pleasure of justice that didn’t belong to him but to his Angel Sister Raguel yet that doesn’t mean that he should stand by with the knowledge he can do  _ something.  _

It’s just one more miracle after the other yet these were better because he  _ helped _ . Not just with little miracles but because he knew… stuff, from the past few thousand years and he could connect the dots. And he is, with the police. 

“Detective Fell, are you okay?” a secretary that Aziraphale always has remembered her name and she has fancied him for it asks. 

He looks up and smiles, a kind smile that flashes the kindness that he wants to share to the world at her. “Yes, of course. I— Have you read about the Milkboy who fell down the well?” he asks as if he wasn’t there. Aziraphale had been there and made sure that the boy, who had a broken arm and leg, only had a few bruises. 

She smiles, wide enough to show her white teeth. “Yah,” her accent making her sound sloppy yet educated. Her name was Myrtle Davies and was from Rye, East Sussex in England. “You were there weren’t you?” 

He nods, looking at the clock on the wall and noticed that it almost around noon. It took him so long to read the clock yet he is grateful that he did. “I was but I— I wasn’t up close,” the truth was that he didn’t have to be too close for him to mend his broken bones. “Anywho, do you have lunch, Miss Davies?” 

Myrtle’s face lit up like a Christmas tree, hope sparks in her large eyes. “No, I don’t, Detective Fell,” she lies with the hopes to get what she’s been wishing for from him since she ever lays eyes on the blonde. 

Aziraphale reaches into his coat pocket and miracles up enough money for a sandwich. “There you are, I don’t think it’s healthy to work on an empty stomach, Miss.” 

Disappointment paints Davies’ face but took the money and puts it in her small pouch in her dress. A long green cotton dress with small imprints of flowers on it, she had blown out three of her checks on it. Right after The Stockmarket Crash, she has been keeping all of her money under her mattress but hides it every morning just in case the Detective ever wanted to come over. “What… how do I look, Detective?” she says with the hope to fish out a least a compliment from him. 

Aziraphale hums and looks at her with a raised eyebrow, his hands in his tan coat with the want to walk her out the door so she can leave the office safely after all the crime that has been happening around. “Quite nice,” he says and inspects her face, making Myrtle blush and fluttering her eyelashes at him. “You’re wearing lipstick,” he points out. “And it’s different from last time.” 

Myrtle shines like the sun. “Yes! Don’t you like it, Mr. Fell?” 

He smiles and walks to the office’s front door to open it for her. “Yes, well I don’t know anything about makeup but it does suit you. Shall we be going? I have a slice of cake waiting for me at home.” 

***

The year was 1939, the month was September and there was a cool breeze in the London air that made the men in their dark coats feel the sting on their faces and women in hats press their hands against the top of them to prevent them from flying off. 

It was beautiful. There were people wandering with a relief that The Great Depression has ended and people have slowly gone back to work, yet there’s still a misery that walks around with those people. Like a gust of wind that flicks up people’s coats and skirts and make their eyes water. 

That gust of cold September wind was Anthony J. Crowley, a man who wore black from head to toe with small touches of red as a off-hand comment on his tie, the ribbon in his hat to allures to what he is. Anthony J. Crowley was a name given to simplify the point that he is simply human-- Anthony was a name he fancied during Rome but didn’t bother to use it until now. While the ‘J’... well it didn’t stand for anything really. It’s just a ‘J’ for the persona to sound more sophisticated. 

You see, Crowley here is doing something shady. Of course he is-- he invented shady with Judas. He’s causing trouble; illegal trouble. The type that can get you shot in the street or jumped in prison. The demon doesn’t walk, he moves a foot in front after the other as his hips move to one side to the other in a way that makes his long and thin form move. He doesn’t as much walk as he does slithers, used to slither by people’s feet but is now slithering amongst them. Smoke escapes his mouth as he stands by a lamp post, his other hand holds the cigarette. Crowley wasn’t really fond of smoking, it was one of those things humans made up to have their hands busy. But this is a habit that he had picked up in a sense of survival; everyone of his employees smoke and have offered him a cigarette or a lighter. This was an act. Yet his mischievous intentions are real to the core. 

It wasn’t dark out, in fact it was around lunch time as he waits for a friend; someone he made a deal with. Well he would certainly get in trouble for calling this specific “person” his friend. Hell really doesn’t take well with the interactions between the opposing side. This was more of an ally that has the loyalty of a soldier. And that’s spot on. 

He slithers into the familiar bookshop that has been standing there for a few hundred years with the same owner. The smell of age hits the demon unexpectedly like the Great Wave had hit the few locals in the area. Another memory that Crowley at the Detective share. He sees him with his back still towards the door for the demon to see. 

“How does an angel, a fighter for Heaven with a bookshop, end up all tied with the police?” the long, thin occult being questions.

The angel’s shoulder’s tense under the tan coat after hearing the familiar voice. He slowly turns around, to face the demon and Crowley could feel the smile before he could see it. “Crowley!” the detective says. “I thought you were in Argentina.” 

“I was,” he informs with the cigarette in his mouth while taking off his own coat and undoing the buttons of his suit jacket to suit down in one of the many couches that the ancient bookshop has to offer. “But I came back,” Crowley lays one of his feet on the coffee table and lifts the other to make _ 4  _ shape. 

Aziraphale doesn’t bother taking off his own coat and doesn’t blink when Crowley sat like that. “I can see that, my dear friend.” 

The demon frowns instantly at the nickname. “Don’t call me that. You know the consequences so damn well. Need to remind you?” those words hiss themselves out of his mouth. He watched the now-detective shiver at the memory of playing the enemies they’re supposed to be in front of two small, pathetic demons and when said nickname slipped out of the angel’s mouth, Crowley had the push them away with a slap across the face that hurt Crowley’s insides and stung Aziraphale’s mouth. 

“Yes, but--” before he could get the words out of his mouth, Crowley was up from the couch and had his hands around the collar of his shirt to pull him close with threatening eyes behind the sunglasses. 

“We cannot deal with another demon being nosy, okay?” he spits out the words against the angel’s perfect face. They’re so... perfect up there. Stuck up and precise and so goddamn (love the irony) proportionate; Crowley often wonders if they have blueprints up there so everything is perfect. Before the Fall, he never thought about it. 

The angel nods, eyes not showing him being disturbed by the limited space in between them and the still lit cigarette close to his face threatening to burn his cheek and jaw. “Of course,” he says with a kind smile that makes the bitter demon to let go of his shirt. The angel fixes the periwinkle bow tie without any shaking nerves.

Dismissing the niceties with a puff of smoke that would make any infernal creature cough he asks: “Are you still with the favour I asked of you?” This favour was one that roots off to the Agreement they had--  _ stay out of each other’s way and lend a hand when needed. _ Well this is it. The mischief that Crowley is doing is illegal but causes no harm-- alcohol trafficking and some guns here and there. Surprisingly enough, Aziraphale didn’t mind the ideas of guns; he even said-  _ if they’re in the right hands it lends a weight to a moral argument _ . Which Crowley thought was bullshit. 

Aziraphale nods rather enthusiastically. “Yes! Why? Has something happened?” 

Crowley shakes his head, stepping away from the angel to look around in the bookshop, after wandering around in Argentina for a solid five years (which was basically just a sigh in immortal beings point of view) it’s nice to see something that was remotely familiar. “No, nothing. Just checking in if you changed your mind.”

“Well,” the angel finally takes off his hat and his coat to show the same damn velvet waistcoat that seemed to have grown into his skin, “I assure you that there’s nothing to worry about. I am a man of my word, er… angel of my word.”

He spins around to look at him and seeing the celestial being was a sight pleasant in sore eyes that Crowley will fondly smile about at the very memory of his smile makes himself sigh like cliche romance play that Crowley was in. “You’ve gone native, as Hell likes to call it,” he smirked softly. 

“Heaven likes to call it like that, too,” the angel shoots back as he finally takes off his own coat, it falling on a chair that slowly made the coat extended across the arms in a tidy manner. “Shall I invite you for a slice of cake?”

The demon stands and makes an ashtray appear by the lamp on a table, trying to stay away from the prized ancient books to rub the cigarette off before pulling the stump, the normal length of a cigarette and unburned came back . “You shall.” He followed Aziraphale up the stairs, puffing smoke along like a locomotive train. 

Upstairs was a cozy little flat, similar to Crowley’s but still very bookshop-like, with shelves upon shelves of books. There was a rug in the lounge area and a caramel colored sofa that Crowley often found himself drunk on. Across of the couch was the kitchen, small and white and with an even smaller light over the round table in the middle of it that served as the dining area. There were only two chairs, never more or less. Aziraphale has never invited someone besides Crowley upstairs. 

Aziraphale sticks his hand inside of the icebox before setting a plate of what seemed to be half a cake with pink icing on top. “You simply must try this cake,” the angel says as he Miracles up two forks. “It’s devine. You’ll love it-- an old woman from the bakery down the street gifted it to me.” 

Crowley sits down in the seat across from him. He took a drag of his cigarette-- maybe act has become real. “What did you do for her to gift it to you?”

“Cured her cat,” Aziraphale says casually while he cuts up a slice of cake before placing it in front of the demon before cutting a new piece for himself. 

The demon poked the cake, the vanilla sponge breaking off into the fork alongside the pink frosting. In reality, he didn’t really like eating. It’s not really a hobby he takes part in, while drinking on the other hand, was something that he loved to do. But he would eat with and for Aziraphale-- but just one bite before pushing it towards him so he could finish it. He puffs out smoke, the once disgusting smell that would stain his shirt but the air in Aziraphale’s shop, replacing the sour smell with the sweet one of pie. Crowley extends his arm to him with the cigarette.

“No, thank you,” the angel says as he chews his cake. 

The demon shrugs, not offended by the decline from the offer. “You sure?”   
  


Aziraphale nods. 

“Alright,” the demon slithers out. “Still don’t know why you’re so stingy about smoking. I doubt that it’s even considered sinful. God wouldn’t have created tobacco for a reason then.” He reasons; asked questions even. He’s always been like that, always asking questions and being curious about the world his once-Boss had created. And opening his mouth was the reason for his Fall. Humans were right: curiosity _ did _ kill the cat. But instead this cat was a once powerful angel that fell face first into a pool of molten sulfur with his halo snapped in half and wings stained with his shame. 

“That is true,” the angel agrees. “But it’s just something I consider to be…” 

“Bad?” raises an eyebrow the demon. 

Again, he nods. 

“Aziraphale, some things aren’t even bad just because humans do it. A human eats sushi yet sin doesn’t necessarily have to do with the sushi. A human drinks doesn’t mean that just because you also did it it doesn’t make them or you anything less,” he expresses with his hands moving and flailing around as he spoke. “You do good; I do bad. I’ve never seen you do bad without thinking of the greater good or whatever the Hell that means.” 

“Yes,” the counter part argues. “But as an angel I’m supposed to be purer. And there are… are angels that are purer than I am. Take Gabriel, he’s done actions for the greater good.” Here is where Crowley wanted to say  _ That bastard? _ but stops himself as his companion continues. “And I am supposed to follow his orders.”

Crowley’s face scrunches up into knitted eyebrows and pressed-into-a-thin-line lips. “So?! Just because  _ you _ consider him pure it doesn’t mean he won’t do actual  _ evil  _ for the-the unfuckable plan--”

“Ineffable, Crowley,” the angel corrects and scolds. 

“Agk! It’s all the same!” he dismisses with a wave of a hand, a gust of wind moving along his face by it. As someone who was in Heaven but Fell, Crowley still doesn’t understand the idea of the ‘Ineffable Plan’. 

Aziraphale doesn’t look surprised by this, despite the limited conversations that they had about this. “The plan is simply too big to describe in words,” he explains without knowing before taking a forkful of the cake and making a happy sound that Crowley knows will haunt his dreams. 

The demon takes his first and last bite of cake. “You told me the definition when we met; I remember. It’s part of being a demon.” The truth was that he has never forgotten all of the conversations and meetings he and Aziraphale have had. 

The angel smiles fondly with a mouthful of cake. “If you remember, I wonder often what that meant,” he says. “The first thing you said to me, ‘that went down like a lead balloon’.”

“You gave away your Heavenly Flaming Sword,” he says and if he was someone else he would have called him an idiot-- but he wasn’t somebody else. They were an angel and demon having a nice conversation over a slice of cake, all they needed was some tea and would both Heaven and Hell’s definition of both blasphemous and traitorous. He finally pushes the plate towards him, nostalgic memories of offering the Apple to Eve, whispering into her ear to know the difference between good and evil and not walk their living days being ignorant. But this was different, it was offering a Heavenly Soldier something nice and polite, without any “wicked” motivations. “But it did go down like a lead balloon.”

“But you whispered into the First Woman’s ear,” argues the angels as he finishes his first slice of cake with a happy hum and pointing the fork at Crowley, waving it like a magic wand, and reaching for the second. They’re not blaming each other; they know that it was beyond their fault. They simply, if they didn’t know it, were just ticks that pushed the timeline forward. 

Crowley hums, because he was right-- well, he said what he thinks is right but also a bit wrong. Yes, he admits that he  _ did  _ tempt Eve with the Apple but: “That wasn’t the First Woman.” he mumbled the same way he did when he met this very angel that was midway done with the slice of cake. 

“Pardon?”

  
  


The question stays unanswered when there was the sound of the door bell ringing downstairs. The occult and the ethereal beings look at each other before standing up and beginning to head downstairs. Crowley waiting for Aziraphale so he can follow him to confront this person, surprised that the angel had forgotten to put the  _ Closed  _ sign and to lock the front door. 

Once they were completely downstairs, Aziraphale looks at the person who was standing by the door. A young man with messy brown hair that was so desperately trying to pull off as professionally messy. As first the angel was confused by what the man wanted, maybe he was a customer. He looks at the young man’s face, seeing the large square glasses that was balanced on his puppet-like nose and the book bag slung across his shoulder. 

Then, he spoke: “Hi! Er, I’m Newton. Newton Pulsifer and I was wondering if I-- if I can get an interview with you, Mister… I mean Detective Fell.” He blinks nervously before wiping his sweating hands on the leg of his trousers and offering his hand to Aziraphale to shake. Obviously being polite -- the angel shook it, making the young man’s hand un-sweaty when he pulled away. “You’re speaking to him, yes? What can I do for you?”   
  


Mr. Pulsifer’s eyes widen and ears perked up. “Uh, yes! I mean, yes, sir. Yes you can. I’m from the Shadwell newspaper and I’m here to interview-- if it’s not too much trouble --about the Milkboy.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows shot up, surprised by the relevance of that story. “I’m sorry for asking but what for? That story is… a week old? Why would your newspaper want to write a story about something that’s basically old news?”

The young reported shrugs, seeming to be even questioning his own authorities. Crowley’s eyes shone behind the sunglasses at that young rebel-ness in this mousy man. He certainly sees the possibility for this man to become corrupt, if Crowley was any other demon. “I was just sent here. But my, uh… superior thinks somethin’ fishy was happening during that time.” He chuckles to himself. “He thinks it was witchcraft.”

Both the angel and the demon’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “That’s quite… Uh—“ Aziraphale stampers out. 

“Silly?” Pulsifer finished for the awkward angel. “It is but I still have to do the story if I want to keep my paycheck.” Then the young man looks at Crowley, eyeing the long man with thin legs who wore all black and suspiciously wore sunglasses indoors. “Do you work for the police too?” he asks this strange individual. 

Crowley’s mouth turns into a smirk. “Hardly.”

Pulsifer blink. “Well you, uh, seem very familiar lookin’.” 

Crowley’s brain told him to look at the angel’s face, just in case this might become into the situation they were worried might happen. Aziraphale understood the signals that the demon was trying to say behind those dark sunglasses. Perhaps they can actually erase a human’s memory without messing up too much. 

“I assume you that you have confused this dear man for someone else,” the angel tries to wiggle him out of this situation of reasonable suspicion. “He’s simply a… customer.” (An angel can’t lie per se but they  _ can  _ bend the truth.)

The reporter looks at the Detective and then at Crowley, having a few seconds to himself to realize the subtext he was witnessing. “Oh!” Newton exclaims. “Inverts,” he whispers that when he looks at the coat and hat on one of the many chairs and how they both came from upstairs. “Well I’m sorry to have bothered you,” Newton apologized once again. “I’ll just… come back. Another day.”

There was a talent that Aziraphale will never admit to have and it was one of persuasions— whenever someone came to his shop under the idea that they could simply  _ buy  _ these books, he would make sure to have these people simply, well, leave; to be gone; to be gone on their merry way. And that’s what this small angel did. But instead of intimidation— as other people often do —Aziraphale simply walks closer and closer to the person with a bright smile. The person won’t even know what is happening until they’re outside with the front door slammed on their face. “How about this Friday?” Aziraphale says, his voice as kind and as highly sweet as usual. There was a slightly hard look in those blue eyes that made Crowley’s (the only witness to this scene) eyebrows raise and forehead crinkle with a slightly hot feeling in his stomach. 

Pulsifer nods, glasses glossing over by being moved rapidly under the light from a nearby window. He tries to agree with a small squeak before the door is slammed closed on his face. Aziraphale had closed the door on him before the other man could have said a word, the bell chiming above being the only sound. 

The demon eyes the Detective, wanting to that he was impressed by this. “Where did that come from? Who the hell— and I’m serious— thought you that?”

The angel blinks, genuinely confused by what he meant. “What do you mean? I was simply changing the date of our interview.”

“Yeah but you basically kicked him out,” the demon clears up. “Have you been talking to other demons? Teaching you be like us to corrupt you?”

Aziraphale feels his face pinken. “Nonsense,” he says as he clears his throat. “You’re the only demon I talk to.”

And he knows it but he shouldn’t be as flattered or proud of himself as he is. Maybe it was the thousands of years of knowing each other that made their adoration and dependency on the other oh-so bittersweet on the tongue of the Snake of Eden himself.  _ Nah,  _ the demon scolds himself from thinking that. “Good thing,” Crowley mumbles, words stuck on the fangs that were hidden in his mouth. 

“Yes? You said something, dear?” Aziraphale asks, looking up a little bit from organizing his bookshelf. 

“No, nothing at all.”

  
  
  
  
  



	2. Mercy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh. Something big is coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! So here’s the second chapter. 
> 
> Also note that some of the characters will say racist/homophobic/sexist joke as usual for the time period so a head up and warning for readers. 
> 
> (These versions of Crowley and Aziraphale are a combination of the Book and the TV show)

The thing was that Aziraphale was doing something illegal. Making paperwork and evidence, essentially, vanish. Many people suspect that there’s a mole in their offices. They’re wrong; it’s an angel. And like guns, protecting someone you know means well but is breaking the wall, it lends weight to a moral argument. Some of the evidence that Aziraphale has to  _ poof  _ away was an anonymous note that was sent in within a small box. They yet have to open, scared that it might be a trap (it’s not). The note that was attached to it lists, supposively, the names of the members in the Mob that has been infesting the area. Scotland Yard has their eyes open in high alert. 

But the angel being in this situation does raise the idea that many philosophy scholars would jump on:  _ what makes something or someone human? _

Because that’s what Aziraphale is essentially doing-- being human and foolish. Because the idea of being human is one that he has been wondering in all his years of existence, he was there when humans were created too so maybe it was the curiosity and him biting his tongue in asking the Almighty God what makes this species be called humans. What do humans have that makes  _ them  _ human? And what it is, does this angel have it?   
  


Celestial beings aren’t human, they don’t need to breathe or eat but this specific being does. In fact, he chooses to do so. In short: does the mercy and compassion he has make him human, or the purest angel to be known?

He is covering for a demon but despite that this small angel-- this soldier for the Almighty --is willing to risk his own skin (both figuratively and literally) because he trusts him. Yes, he’s a demon; a henchman in the name of Satan, Lord of Evilness and Punishment and Prince of Lies, but Aziraphale  _ knows  _ that he’s doing good in his own “evil” way. In whatever the  _ Hell  _ he’s doing, this angel has to protect him. 

It is part of the Agreement.

Imagine protecting you hereditary enemy because you trust him. Would you? Is trusting someone so blindly, human? Or foolish? Or maybe it was a mercy he was giving him. 

“That’s a bit holier-than-thou,” Crowley would say if he was present and could hear his thoughts. There’s very little that Aziraphale knows about demons but he was sure that they could indeed read minds. Not all but many, enough for angels to often have their guards up and to not think too hard. Never has Aziraphale asked if Crowley could read minds. Part of him is simply too embarrassed to ask. 

His mouth noves, mouthing the conversation he and Crowley had about their deal. It was only yesterday but more an immortal being that was only a blink ago. 

“Are you alright there?” someone the angel was very familiar with asks.

The detective nods. “Yes. Just thinking about someone. 

J Jones smirks, his moustache quirking up with amusement. ”Who’s the lucky gal? Is it that secretary that’s always fluttering her eyelashes at you? She’s a fine piece of a woman there.” This man was a Chief Inspector, assigned to be one of Aziraphale’s partners-- one of the two. And no, the other isn’t as bad as this man. Jones was a man who held on old ideas that he was raised to believe when he lived in Manchester. 

Aziraphale heard what he said, but didn’t listen. In his thousands of years of being on this Earth, he isn’t going to waste his memory or lifetime in this world to grow mean and bitter and disrespectful to anyone. They are all God’s creations and should be treated as such. “Hmm? No, no. Just a… an acquaintance of mine.”

“Oh… is she single?” Jones asks before cackling like a madman. 

“Are young women all you think of?” Charles says as he stands by the desk Aziraphale he sat in. Unlike the angel, Charles was vocal about his discomfort when Jones talks like that. Maybe it was the young age that he had and was raised with a respectful knowledge. Charles was around the age that the young man that stopped by the bookshop yesterday probably has. With the same messy hair but a lighter brown and with a dark stubble across his chin and jaw. 

Jones scoffs as he walks away from the desk to prepare himself tea. “What? At least now you know that I’m not an invert or a fruit.” he pours the kettle into his mug. “And there’s many young women around-- it’s a shame to not enjoy every single one of them.”

This was the first time the angel spoke up since the conversation started. “Number 7-- Thou Shall Not Commit Adultery,” he quotes, knowing and have met Jones’ wife a few times. She was very kind, she made great American-styled pancakes. 

Jones scoffed. “You know, you being a Bible-thumper really explains why no woman has shagged you yet—“

“Oi!” Charles warns. “Can we get back to work? Please, for the love of God.”

Aziraphale nods and smiles at Charles. “We have missing evidence, I frankly see how we can continue this case.” Part of him was wishing upon all of the Saints that they would leave the case alone in a box to rot. 

“We still have to open the box,” Charles reminds, fingers tapping on the table, a nervous habit that has yet to be diagnosed for the next few decades as something that came from The Great War. 

Aziraphale looked up and around at Charles, the young man’s face showed determination with hard brown eyes and hair falling before hovering the same way feathers on the top of a bird's head does. “Is that really a wise idea?” the small angel asked, voice stops to try and crack out his nervousness. 

Jones then stands up straight, his tea probably cold now from waiting around for the answer to pop down from the sky. “We should do it. I don’t care if those Scotland Yard fruits said otherwise. What are we? Men!”

_ I don’t really count as a man,  _ Aziraphale thought in his head, eyes landing on the fountain pen on the desk in hopes to deny eye contact. 

“Where is it anyways?” Charles said, his coat wrinkled from sitting. 

And before the angel could protest anything, to try and remind them of the rules that this station has, they were in the room where the box was stashed away. A room without a table or chairs, with the box on the floor in all of its mysterious drama that was just plain ridiculous too much. The room was used for evidence before the “mole” came around and make it all vanish. Funny enough, the mole was standing close to the only evidence yet needed to vanish. 

The three— the blond, the young, and the bastard —look at the box. “Can we not do this?” the angel pleads. 

“Why are you always playing peacemaker?” Jones says. “Be a man for once.”  _ Again, not a man.  _

Charles looks around before pulling out his gloves from his coat pocket, it yet has to be winter or chilly but the slight breeze makes his thin long hands ache. “Don’t worry, I’ll do it.” 

The angel looks at him, a bit surprised by the sheer willingness that he has to sacrifice himself for evidence that might not be useful or that the “mole” will later discard. Aziraphale watches the name take a step forward, feeling the burn in his stomach, similar to watching people’s dead, black flesh during The Black Plague. 

Before he could speak up, Jones says: “Move a bit to the left, Charles.” He did and jumped when gunshots popped and landed in the box. Only pauses to move and finally stopping when Jones returns the gun into his pocket. 

Aziraphale stares at the human with wide eyes, shocked and confused. “Was that really necessary?” he asks, pulling Charles away, clearly shaken from the bullets fired at his feet. 

The bastard shrugs. “Now you know that it isn’t a bomb,” he says. “There’s a war coming. And it isn’t a prediction; it’s a fact.”

The young man was shaking like a leaf, his chest rising and falling with wide eyes that glazed over with memories of the first Great War. This hasn’t been the first time this has happened, it aches and burns into someone’s memories and life, taking control so much that it takes up a whole chunk of your life. 

In a moment of panic, Aziraphale’s grip on Charles’ arm tightens to make the man feel better, a small Miracle crawls into the young man’s skin and into his muscles to relax, soothing and grounding him back to reality. 

“If you two pansies are done cuddling, lend me a hand,” Jones says as he lowers himself to poke the box with a pen as he lifts the lid to find a stack of papers with a few holes where the bullets have penetrated them and ripped through them yet managed to be readable. 

The angel makes a small sound in the back of his mouth, his lips pressed for a second to express the indignation that was biting back. He moves, dragging Charles with him to poke his head outside of the room, calling for another secretary to help the young man sit down and serve him a cup of tea. Mary, the secretary, nods and holds Charles up to sit him in her chair. 

Aziraphale sighs as he turns back to look at Jones, rather annoyed by his behavior yet fights the comment that he can feel on the tip of his tongue. “What have you found?” he asks, standing next to him before squatting down alongside the bastard. 

Jones’ mouth hums. “A stack of names, their positions in this mob and you know, such as.” 

Swallowing nothing, the angel says: “I don’t understand why this mob is such a bad thing,” he stutters out awkwardly, trying to not seem as worried as he is. “I mean, we don’t think they’re caused, Uh, actual trouble. It’s not like they’ve  _ killed  _ someone—“

The babbling angel was stopped when the bastard man turns around to eye him up and down like a judge trying to determine if someone is innocent or guilty by just merely looking at them. “Stop being a peacemaker, Fell. When are you just going to start following orders?”

And even though Jones was his partner, he elected himself the leader. A false leader; a false prophet. Somehow this man reminded the angel of his Superior— a sinful comparison that a priest would whip himself for simply thinking it. But being holier than any Priest or Father or even the Pope, Aziraphale feels no shame. Only the ashamed are with weak morals. 

A sass pressed the blond’s tongue against the inside of his teeth. A sass that Crowley would choke on his own wine for listening, a comment that will make him Fall. 

Aziraphale was quiet as he looks down, not in submission but to stare at the evidence he’ll have to burn. “Can I look at it please?” The ‘please’ at the end was just part of his own niceties. 

Chief Inspector Jones hands him the stack of paper after a brief second of eyeing him like he did before. The angel took it in his hands and scans the names as he flips the papers, looking for a specific name.  _ Crowley.  _

And he found it, in the end of the list and circled with nice ink from a pen.  **Anthony J. Crowley.** _ What does the J stand for?  _ he wanted to ask out loud as if the demon was near to hear him. He should ask him in private. Aziraphale looks up to see Jones drilling his eyes into him. With a wave of hand over the papers to make the black ink on the white paper fade away to dust. “There’s Nothing here,” the blond says as he pats the stack of paper to make it seem more sympathetic, his voice low and adding a shake at the end. 

Unsurprisingly, Jones reaches to snatch the papers from the angel’s hands and stare at them with those large, ugly brown eyes, a shade of brown that came from dirty of a toxic river. “What? How the hell is that possible? I just saw the names, full of names that… that…” the Chief stutters out, clearly outraged by this until it grew into frustration. 

It took a lot of self control for the angel not to smile. His mouth wanting to curve into a kind but also pitying smile that a person would give to a child. “Come along, I suppose it was a trap in a sense. A trap to look like fools.”

Another frustrating sound erupted from the Chief, lips pressed in a thin line under his mustache, his face as red as the human body can allow. “I am not insane and definitely did not fall for a trap!” 

Aziraphale says, hoping to not also escort him too. “Be careful. Having in anger will make you age faster.”

***

Dress shoes clicking against the tile floor echoes in the building. Said building was one found on a busy street where people who walk on the pavement outside don’t suspect the unlawful activities inside. Three pairs of those dress shoes click, one of those pairs were being pushed and dragged against his will, eyes wide with fear and heart swelling with adrenaline to get away. The two pairs, one on each side, were big men with serious eyes and scars on their knuckles; active employees in this business. 

The man that was being pushed was Daniel Mayberry, a young man of twenty seven with a mouth that will talk your ears off, a curse and blessing. And now that was more of a curse. He was responsible for the mysterious box that the detectives opened. Now his confession will have his price. 

“Judas once loved Jesus,” Crowley says as the two large men threw Daniel onto the floor, right at the feet of his desk. They were in his office, all black and sleek but minimalist— no window behind him to let the light in. “Did you know that, Daniel?”

The younger man shakes his head, shoulders shivering with fear and his stomach churning with terror. He watches Crowley stood up from his chair, gold with the face and wings of an angel, not a scratch on it. “I said, did you?” voice loud in a whisper, holding back actual yelling, a whispering hiss. 

Daniel shivers and shakes his head again, panicked and taking in a deeper breath, fearing it might be his last. “No! No, no, no, Mr. Crowley. I didn’t.” 

Crowley walks around his desk, long fingers brushing against the smooth top of his desk, stopping by the corner. “You’ve played the wrong game, Mayberry. You certainly did,” he hisses. “You’ve played Judas. And that’s a role that will lead to burning.” He walks until he was in front of the younger man, his curly hair begging to be pulled. He stares at him, eyes piercing with yellow behind the black sunglasses. “What should I do with you?” he asks no one and everyone in the room, squatting to be at his level. 

Daniel looks up, blue eyes filling with terrified tears. “I don’t know,” he whispers. “Sir.” 

The demon, both literal and a metaphor in the moment, stands up straight. “Do you know what I do to traitors? Traitors who I have become very,  _ very  _ fond of?” he belittles, a spike of anger closer to spitting at the young man. “I put the  _ fear of me in them!”  _ he booms the answer, making everyone in the room jump. 

Crowley turns away from the cowering man, shaking and sobbing while his breathing was one of a man close to death. 

“Throw him into the snake pit,” the demon says as he sits back down as he fixes his tie. “Make him suffer.”

The large men pull a sobbing and screaming Mayberry away, begging to leave and stop and for them to have mercy on him. Mercy is a funny thing for a demon. They were never given mercy when they fell and they won’t give mercy on those sent to Hell. The punished have become the punishers. But Crowley, he didn’t mean to fall, all he did was be himself. Maybe that was enough for Heaven to kick him out. 

The light clicking of a lighter was the only sound in the room after the door was slammed shut and the man’s screaming was heard no more. Crowley puts his cigarette near the lighter that Richard has. 

“Still don’t understand why you were easy on him,” Richard says as she pulls away the lighter after Crowley was done. “The snake pit will simply shell shock him and that’s it.”

Puffing out smoke through his teeth, Crowley put his feet on the desk. “I’m well aware of that. You know I don’t necessarily kill. Only occasionally. When I feel like it,” the demon taps the cigarette in the ashtray. “And we can't afford to be around killing people.”

Richard nods, his hands touching his own face and feeling the beard. He’s one of the few people that Crowley has seen have a beard ever since he came back from Argentina. “I agree. But the war is coming. You can feel it in the air. Churchill has made it clear that Germany has been… a threat.”

The demon was aware of this, he knew that it will become the greatest war to come since the Great War— the Second World War has a nice ring to it. Despite him not causing it, it’s an easy target to go and take the credit. He’s been far too busy being a nuisance everywhere else. 

Richard sighs, his shoulders tensing under the jacket of his suit. “Did we scare everyone?” he asks. 

“His betrayal will make an example of the others. He wrote all of our names down. He was a traitor to all of us.” 

“So he’ll burn,” Richard adds. “He’ll burn in the snake pit— enough to scare him straight and for him to sweat it out.”

The values that this mob has is different. It’s different enough to scare people’s socks off and make them sob and scream. No one is dying, just sweating bullets and finding a way to fall in line but not scared to as questions. Because  _ God forbid  _ that they can’t ask the boss questions. 

The Snake Pit is a room, all black and stuffed with blankets and pillows and sheets that surrounded the fireplace. It’s a method of torture that, even if he didn’t use it, Crowley knew worked the best for those human souls that decided to commit the sin of Hersey, forced to be in flaming tombs for eternity. Crowley does pity those who have committed that sin, he believes that they haven’t done anything wrong; all they did is doubt the rules before looking around to see what fits best for them. 

Richard sighs as he rubs his face, spine failing to hold himself up as he leans against the brick wall and looks out the window. 

These were The Fallen. 

***

It was Teatime, making everyone in the station smile as they stormed towards the kettles that waited for them. Women at together, giggling and gossiping about their husbands and children while the men talked about the slow nature of the day. The sun was up and strong yet hidden away behind the grey clouds that London is so known for. 

Aziraphale silently chewed on a biscuit, looking out the window as he thought about a way to talk to Crowley once again. Wanting to become closer to the demon, feeling that there was something on his mind that made the small angel worry. A feeling of wanting to talk once again, like they did when they watched  _ Hamlet  _ for the first time; or the conversation they had during 1793 as they ate their crepés. 

“Detective Fell,” a woman’s voice pulls the angel from the clouds of this thinking. “May I sit?”

“You may, Miss Davies,” the detective says as he points to the seat across from him. 

The secretary sits, heels now flat on the floor enough to have the contrast of colors from the floor and the shoes. Miss Davies had set her own cup of tea on the table before stirring it with a silver teaspoon, something that she has been bringing for a while. “Detective Fell, how do you feel about the oncoming war?” she asks. 

And would it be strange to say that he didn’t care much for it. One, it wasn’t even demon work, it was even worse: it was human work who cause all of this. And this angel didn’t meddle into human affairs that much, only a few in history. King Arthur and Shakespeare, who wasn’t even his doing, are the only he somehow came in and miracle and helped. Hell, Aziraphale didn’t even help when Jesus was crucified. But he was put on Earth to help people right under their noses— not to cause a scene. It’s a small step at a time. 

During the Great War, Aziraphale was in Mexico, meaning that he had walked into a revolutionary war but he did help the people by being in the church that many children and women hid under. 

“That I’m not surprised,” he sips his tea. 

Miss Davies smiles at him, eyelashes fluttering a bit. “Did you serve in the first one?”

He supposed that he can be honest at this moment, it’s not like he can’t trust her, all she has done is been very polite to him; the angel can feel the positive energy radiating out of her. He was sure that when she dies she’ll become one of those human souls that would be nominated to become an angel. “No. I was traveling— after I finished my studies of course.” 

Her eyebrows raise with pleasant surprise. “My my my! Detective Fell, I don’t mean to be, uh, rude but… how old are you?” 

Now, in the human sense, this number most likely doesn’t exist. It was far too complicated and long for a single person to say in just one breath. In short: “Middle aged.”

Miss Davies laughed— cackles, in a way a child would blink in confusion and look around to see where that sound of an owl choking in the spine of a mouse is coming from. “Oh! You’re such a card.”

In his nature, that went over his head and was about to correct her with the phrase  _ I’m actually just a detective  _ when a feeling of dread came over him. A feeling like the oncoming storm that wiped out the locals, the feeling of the Romans knocking on Jesus’ door, the feeling of sheer silence that came before any war. Something terrible is about to come—

“There’s been a murder!” someone said as they burst through the doors. 

And in that same moment, a young Atheist that is the apprentice of a witch hunter, sees at the newspaper is printed with the headline:  **Britain At War With Germany.**

Oh. Something big is coming. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Liked the chapter? Like and comment, thank you! :)


	5. Daniel Mayberry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I like pears”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again! So I’m still alive. It’s the first month of school so it’s going to be a bit slow on posts.

“Is there any identification on him?” Charles asks, hands shaking nervously at the sight of the man. A white sheet was placed on top of him to cover the body with only a red blossom of blood on the head where he was shot. 

Jones lifts the sheet with a pen. “Yeah. Daniel Mayberry. Worked for the mob— it seemed like the mob didn’t like him being a loud mouth.” He turns to face the young man, “You should try that, Charlie.”

The young man’s long nose scrunches up. “With all due respect, sir, I was raised to not fight the elderly.” 

Aziraphale stays quiet, looking at the dead man on the floor. The three of them ran out of the station, Charles following suit with a headache and possibly low energy. The angel had fed him a chocolate bar to make him feel better. Daniel Mayberry was one of the names on the list that he had made vanish, making the ink fade. Now he was wondering if he should make it reappear. Yes, this was the mob that Crowley is the head of but he doesn’t kill people.  _ Right?  _ In fact, Aziraphale can’t even remember the last time the demon had killed a man. Maybe around the King Aurthur’s time, he  _ was  _ the Black Knight so death did come in hand with his threatening demeanor. 

A sense of wanting to go home overwhelmed the angel. Not heaven or back to the bookstore but by Crowley. “Is there a record on him?” Aziraphale asks. 

Jones nods as he stands up straight. “Runner for the mob and talked and talked.”

Then Charles blurts out: “He sent the list.” 

The blond’s heart drops into his stomach, the angel would have sweat if he hadn’t blessed his body to not do so (he has standards).  _ How did he know?  _ That’s the funny thing about humans, they have a gut feeling that made them feel things in their bones. Aziraphale tried to control his face, desperately wanting to not look guilty. “How… How can you be certain?” the angel stampers. 

“Gut,” Charles confirms the angel’s theory. “That’s all we have in the moment.” 

“Wonderful,” breaths the angel, both fascinated and terrified of the human wonders of this man and the sheer brilliance that has wit inside of him. Humans have fascinated him since the beginning of it all. “Brilliant.”

The shadow of Charles unruly hair covers the pink that grew on his face. “Thank you,” he says under his breath as he continued to look down, faking concentration instead of flattered. 

“Enough of both of you,” said Jones in disgust. “So we know who this is and why but not where the hell they're located.” 

“Well we don’t exactly know if they actually did it.” And this is where Aziraphale opened his mouth caused what it will be later be known as a ‘butterfly effect’. His partners stare at him in awe and with the expectation that he was simply kidding. He should have. He could have. But Aziraphale was a man (err, angel) of strong beliefs. He is headstrong enough to be considered an ambitious demon. It’s a  _ miracle  _ that he hadn’t fallen yet.  **Yet** . 

It took awhile for Jones mouth to close before saying: “You are fucking insane. They did it! It’s a cut and dry case, Fell!”

And he should have sunk down and back into his place, be the soldier he was made to be so and stay quiet. But he didn’t. “We don’t know if this mob killed one of its own. Maybe it was a, uh-- a rival of sorts. An enemy! Enemies tend to go after each other!” 

The long excruciating silence that was left after Aziraphale’s wake should have been used to ponder and to inspect what he just said. Instead it was used and then broken to say the comment of: “You’re fucking insane,” Jones said with his thick, graying eyebrows knitting together in bewildered horror. 

It felt like Az should have shrugged, sheepishly but he didn’t get the chance to as Charles came to his rescue by interrupting him. “Well, Fell isn’t completely wrong. It is Possible that a rivalry might have resulted to this.” 

“I’m not possibly wrong,” echoes the angel.

Jones grits his teeth hard enough to chip a corner of one. “Not only one but two?” he says in outrage, feeling and looking like he might fully pull his hair out. 

This time, Aziraphale catches Charles looking at him, eyes that look oh-so sleepy now focusing on him as if the angel was the sun he was trying to look directly at. The blond managed to shrug.

***

The death of Daniel Mayberry didn’t hit the news yet but Newt knew that there was a story out there. He felt it in his bones the same way an old woman claims that she can feel the rain coming in her knee. Newton was not a nosy person at all, he didn’t look over the neighbor’s fence to see what the ruckus was about-- not even  _ once _ as a child. And yet, stories come to him and fall into his lap. He believes that that’s the soul reason Mr. Shadwell hired him. But Newt believes that maybe it was just because he’s a magnet for bad luck.

Ever since he was a child, Newt has never been able to go outside without a second handingly a tragedy. Maybe one of the neighborhood kids’ bike wheels snaps off and hits someone in the chest. Maybe someone lost their wallet when they went to get sweets. Nonetheless, Newt knew he was bad luck. 

He sighs as he feels the window lifted open by one of the secretaries to let the wind in. The wind then whispers into his ear, it whispered in a sense that the human mind searches for words in the silent darkness or faces in random everyday objects. The wind whispered like a quiet timid woman who spoke a dead language that only Newt understood. “Mr. Shadwell,” the reporter says as he pokes his head into his office, the door was always open due to the old man’s superstitious nature and with the irrational fear that a wicked old witch will fly on her broomstick through the window and be locked in with her-- that’s what Mr. Shadwell said. 

“Hmm?” he gargles, nose always in that same book as smoke escapes behind the pages.

‘“I was wondering.” he starts like always, soft posh accent coming in with a smaller voice as the base. “If I can go out… to search for a story.” Newt knew that necessarily did  _ not  _ need to asl for permission; yet he still does, molded by extremely polite parents that would rather strip naked in the cold weather than be rude to a person. Yet anyone that was in at least in the area knew that Newton Pulsifer was Shadwell’s favorite reporter. He grinds out stories of tragedies so often that people will only read the paper to see what he said. Just him. No other, eloquent reporter with a degree but instead a mousy man who was scared of his own shadow yet is a magnet for the bizarre. 

Shadewell didn’t need to look at him to shoo him away with the wave of his hand. Newton closed the door midway before walking away. He could basically smell a story. 

***

They didn’t do it. Simple as that. Like crowley said before, they can’t afford to kill someone. The demon hisses to himself, nervous about the situation, as he looks out the window. The body was found in a warehouse, one that Crowley has used to own but resold it to a company to steer away from the fact that he used to hold his  _ business  _ there and maybe they’ll find something quite… suspicious. nonetheless . the warehouse was across Crowley’s flat.

Shiny, yellow eyes glare as he looks at the silhouettes of the three people inside that warehouse. Two humans and an angel to be precise. If Crowley squints he could see Aziraphale’s hidden wings and halo. The ring on the angel’s pinky finger was that halo, shrunken down as a normal and socially acceptable accessory. Used to the angel without his wings or halo, he’s not seen it since the Beginning. Crowley watches the three silhouettes move around and a pang of those seven deadly sins-- envy. 

For what? To who? To be considered one of the “good guys”? To be a hero?

He can’t be, not ever once was he even considered a hero. Not even when he was angel. He was never handed a shiny, gold medal with his name on it.  _ Did he want it?  _

Crowley shakes that thought away, continuing to watch the three shadows leave and leave the dead body on the floor. 

The demon taps the windowsill with his long fingernails before leaving the window to say to richard-- “Keep an eye out. Someone is going to dig their nose into this.”

He saunters to his desk, flopping into the golden chair with the face of an angel on the top rail of it. A sick and hilarious joke that he will reveal to his demon co-workers. He sighs a characteristics that he fairly enjoys that humans have taught him. He waits for the split second before the phone rings, he reaches to pick it up. “Aziraphale,” he drawls out into the phone. 

There was a split second before the angel spoke. “Yes! Hello. Crowley, my dear boy, I have news and you’ll see that you’re in quite a-- uh what do americans say?”   
  


“I’ll quote you instead,” the demon says. “It all went pear-shaped.”

“I’m afraid so.” 


End file.
